Broken
by Paltomi
Summary: [Apollo Justice spoilers!] Phoenix Wright, the man Kristoph Gavin destroyed seven years ago, takes revenge out of the courtroom and into his own hands. [mature content]


**Edit: **I don't know what the hell just happened, but somehow, this story got replaced by the document for "Dessert." Um... It should be fixed now? I appologize for the unintentional bait-and-switch. ;;

**A/N:** This is just something I wrote unexpectedly one night when I should have been sleeping. It's in response to a kink meme prompt requesting a bound, gagged, and tortured Kristoph with a heaping side of angst. It's slightly au in that, rather than cornering Kristoph in court, Phoenix takes revenge on him his own way. Enjoy! ;P

**Rated M** for explicit sexual content, sexualized violence, and rape.

**Spoilers for:** Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney

* * *

He's on a king-sized bed, and he's naked, lying flat on his stomach like a squashed turtle. He's wearing handcuffs around his wrists, and they're too tight; they cut rings into his skin as his body's weight tugs them from where they're secured at the top of the bed frame. His legs are spread as wide as they'll go, roped around the ankles with a thick cord and bound to the bedposts. A rubber ball much too large for his mouth has nevertheless been forced between his teeth and buckled there by a strap around his head. Saliva leaks from the corners of his mouth, wetting the ball and staining his chin.

His fingernails, usually immaculate, are shattered and bloody. His hair hangs lank and loose around him. His glasses were broken some time ago, along with his nose; a clean cut under the left eye, already scabbing, is the only memory of them.

Stainless steel clamps are locked over his nipples, which now hang like teats below him, and as he tries not to think of the searing pain there, a hand finds the chain that links them and gives it a quick, terse yank. He arches his back, an involuntary movement, and screams past the rubber ball, tears clouding his eyes. A low chuckle rumbles in his ear.

"There's nothing like a bit of long-overdue revenge, eh, Kristoph?" Phoenix Wright murmurs, moving his free hand up to stroke the captive's backside with mocking tenderness. Kristoph growls something, but it's lost in the gag. Wright only laughs. "Hey now, it's better than being locked up in prison, awaiting your execution, right?"

Kristoph doesn't struggle, doesn't react at all. He doesn't admit, not to himself, that he's afraid, that he's been conditioned too well by this fool of a former defense attorney. Instead, he stares, unblinking, at the wall before him, at his cuffed hands with their dry red rings and fingerprint bruises. What used to be ice in his eyes has turned to water. Tears – they slide down his pale, gaunt cheeks, joining the saliva at his chin, but they are his body's weakness, not his mind's. He won't break. He refuses to break.

Wright runs his hand up from his bottom, along the ridge of his spine, and into his tangled hair. He grasps a handful and then jerks his arms apart in opposite directions, tearing Kristoph's swollen nipples even further from their origin. Through the delirium of pain, he hardly hears the sound he makes in response.

"Come on, Kristoph," Wright chides as the captive struggles to orient himself back in reality. "You caused me more pain than that. Seven years of mental anguish, remember? For you, it's only been three days."

Three days – is that all? But for three days, Kristoph has not been fed. He has been given little cups of water every now and then and made to drink them like a dog, with only his mouth. He has not been released from his restraints at all, not even to use the restroom. Wright brings him a tin bucket to piss in and watches while he does it. For three days, he has been treated worse than an animal, humiliated more than he's ever been in his life. That damned poker game that injured his ego seven years ago and led to all of this – it is nothing now.

But he won't admit that. He won't let Wright win.

A slap to the face brings the ball hard against his teeth, and he groans, releasing another outpouring of saliva and this time, blood, from his mouth.

"Do you regret it, Kristoph Gavin?" Wright asks, and he knows that Kristoph, bound and gagged before him, can't respond. No – he won't _let_ him respond, won't let him change the answer that tortured him for seven long years. That would be too easy. Kristoph knows exactly how Phoenix Wright thinks. After all, he's the same way.

A slap to the other cheek knocks his head to the side, and he chokes on a sob. Wright ignores this, reaches between his captive's legs to grasp his flaccid member, and gives it a rough, angry squeeze. Kristoph moans.

"I hate you, Kristoph Gavin," Wright says, retracting his hand to the rear and giving it a sharp smack. "And it's because I hate you that I'm not going to kill you. Instead, I'm going to let you live with the pain and utter humiliation that I have had to endure for these past seven years and that you will have to live with for the rest of your life."

Before he can register what's happening, Kristoph feels his cheeks being spread. Suddenly, something is rammed inside, hard and dry, and he shrieks into the rubber ball, flexing his jaw around it to try and dispel it and order Wright to stop. The intrusion makes slow, agonizing progress. He flails in his bonds, trying, in hopeless desperation, to stop it. But in those seven years, did he ever stop the destruction of Phoenix Wright?

When Kristoph next wakes – he doesn't recall passing out, but he must have, for Wright is gone, and he is free of his restraints – he finds himself lying still and sore on the velvet comforter of the king-sized bed. After his head is through swimming with nausea and discomfort, he tries to sit up, but he is met only with shooting pains through his backside. Reaching behind him from where he lies on his stomach, his hand connects with a shaft of wood protruding from his bottom, a literal stick up his ass. With eyes fogged over with tears and a stream of tremulous whimpers, he slowly, gingerly eases the protrusion out of his backside, letting out a cry of simultaneous terror and relief when the thing fully emerges and he drops it beside him. It is the broken handle of a broomstick, slicked with his own blood and other bodily secretions.

He tries to stand up because he wants to leave now, to get away from the whole thing and act like this hasn't affected him, hasn't hurt him; it's just another failure of Wright's to get back at him, nothing more. He hasn't been broken, not by that man.

But all he can do is collapse back onto the bed, arms cocooning his face while he cries, because he knows that that's a lie.


End file.
